The first one, who was more rotund than a silo, laid in the grass, twiddling it. The second one, taller than a pine tree, stood and let the wind catch his hair and jacket. The third, who by all accounts was as normal as a human could be, sat in a sort of melancholy, longing for the days gone by. By any reach of the imagination, these three seemingly nonspecial and unenthusiastic schmoes would amount to nothing, and nothing astounding nor remarkable could ever happen involving them; and that would be correct. They just waited atop the hill, almost in a trance, for something so uninteresting and generic, that for all intents and purposes, we should not even venture to guess what it could be; yet we do. We sit in our chairs, wondering what they were waiting for, and why they were waiting for it.

The evening drew on, and the sun set behind the grassy hills that rolled on endlessly into the far away horizons, and further still behind the trees that grew so magnificently, yet so regularly, into the sky. This scene, one without the faintest taste of passion or uniqueness, ends up being one of such intrigue and beauty, that we wish to be within it. We wish to be atop that hill, and fall into the same unoriginality that they were in; for, that inner and outer peace they felt, waiting for what seemed to be forever and for naught, is soothing to us, and, in fact, desirable.

And so, taking leave of all my worries and stressors, I went to said hill, and found said three men, still awaiting the unknown. I laid alongside the rotund fellow, and alongside the average gent, who was still sitting and staring into the past, and looked up into the sky. The fading sun warmed my skin, and the wind blew against my face in a comforting way. I waited upon that hill, just like the others, not knowing of what we were waiting for; and I never learned what it was; however, I felt an inner peace, and I stayed in that sunset until night enswathed the world.